


spinning (only dream of me)

by orphan_account



Category: The Mummy Returns (2001)
Genre: Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No Sex, No Smut, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, bc everything is Vaguely Referenced, i honestly have no idea what to tag this is, so i tagged those just to be safe!!!, which is why i upped the rating a tad ja feel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 22:36:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10886322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Her hands ghost over your arms, her touch softer than a feather, barely there—not nearly enough to smudge the ink caging you in.





	spinning (only dream of me)

**Author's Note:**

> sorry for any typos its nearing 11:30pm and im supposed to be asleep but i wanted to write this fhjffjf
> 
> titled after [spinning centers by chelsea wolfe](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M94zfoYL7yA)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Her hands ghost over your arms, her touch softer than a feather, barely there—not nearly enough to smudge the ink caging you in. You twist your own hands in her hair, your long fingers delicate but sure as they tug lightly on her scalp. Her eyes flutter close; you tug again, pulling her closer; you can feel hot air when she exhales abruptly before opening her eyes again.

You say her name slow, tasting it like she’s rubbing the gold in your hair between her fingers—sweet and slightly damp, and so very, very carefully. She’s being _so careful_ ; your heart is beating so hard in your chest you wonder how the desert itself doesn’t hear it in the dead of this night.

“Nefertiti,” you say, wanting her to touch you, to hold you, to kiss you, but she knows all too well about the traps on your body that keeps her out and you in. Her hands are gentle and her eyes are soft—naïve, even—and there’s nothing inside you that cringes away from her. Your skin doesn’t crawl or cling to the bone to stretch away from the touch. It’s—

You lean forward and kiss her. Something chaste but damp, just below her collar bone. She sucks in a breath as you press your fingers into her side, against the material of her dress, and you’re perfectly aware of how still she holds herself. You want to wrap your arms around her waist and hold her till the sun comes up.

You tell her to leave—more softly than you intended—and you resist the urge to smudge the ink on your skin yourself. The horizon gives birth to the sun again, and all you know is the feeling of her skin on your lips as dawn cuts across the yawning sky.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
